Bloody Horrible Attempts
by 0-moonwind
Summary: Chell urges Wheatley to try writing a few short stories, despite his obvious hatred for the feat. Human! or Android!Wheatley, whichever you please. Short, one-shot.


Oh, god. You want me to what? Oh, I can't. I've tried before, luv. I just can't do it. They make it look so easy, they do. All famous and going on TV talkshows, it's just not fair, it just isn't! Not you, luv, you're one of the most kind people I've ever met, I mean that _they_ do it so easily, saying it just comes to them, like it's bloody instinct. It's not instinct! It's not hardwired into the system like walking and talking is! It's hard! You have to make it look just perfect, make no mistakes, or people will call you a moron and tell you to get a life. I'm not a moron!

Listen, luv, I'd try again if it weren't so hard, honestly, I would. But this is one thing you're going to have to live with without me doing. You do it great, molding all together like it's just a piece of clay begging to be made into a simple bloody bowl. And painting! I can't do that either. Fine arts just isn't something I can do. And this must be the hardest of them all! You have to look at every single one of those little keys and get every one of them right. It's like a guessing game! I've always been horrible at those. I can't seem to just figure out which cup the marble is under! Or which hand the dime's in!

Fine, I'll try if you really want me to. But luv, please don't laugh at me. I'm just a mess when it comes to it, I'm begging you, do _not_ laugh at me.

"The sun set on the green field of soft grass, the sky turning a creamy orange. The rosebushes and cherry trees surrounding the small plain waved in the wind, as if sending their goodbyes to the sun and greetings to the moon. Warm light danced across the horizon, joining the tumbling fluffy clouds in a ceremonial tango of departure. The breeze playfully tugged at the tree branches, urging them to look at the dark haze of night beginning to spread across the other side of the hills. After a few long minutes of party-like well-wishing to the day, the moon shyly peeked out over the skyline, glowing dimly. It's light caught the attention of the small furry animals scurrying around in the grass, signaling it was time to head into their safe burrows for several hours until their bright, yellow star returned to rule the skies."

See that, luv? Horrible. It's barely anything compared to the scene I had in my head. Oh, if only you could see it, it was beautiful, I felt like I could reach out and wave to the sun as well. Shame you weren't there. You'd love it, I know you would. You could paint it and hang it up on the walls, like you do with those pretty pictures of fruit trees and owls you make. Wonderful, those are. Quite impressive. I can't see why you don't sell them. They'd go for a lot of money, they would. Realistic things like those always get the attention of the public, you could become bloody famous, luv!

No, don't flatter me. It's awful, nothing compared to those _Harry Potter_ books. Those are works of art, and well known, too. For god's sake, _She_ could do better. And She murders for the fun of it, with those tests and sentry turrets. She could bloody write poetry better than I could!

Oh, luv, sorry. Bad memories. Didn't mean to bring those up, uh, I'm really sorry. Um, listen. If I try again, will you stop? Please? I can't stand to see you sad, luv.

What's that? You want me to write about _that_? Are you bloody out of your mind? I couldn't write that to save my own flipping life! Maybe you _do_ have brain damage after all, if you want me to do that! I-I can't! Didn't you see that last piece? That was a bloody disgrace!

Oh, god. I don't have a choice, do I? Otherwise you'll just look at me with those sad eyes of yours all day. Ah, I suppose I'll try. But remember luv, I'm not doing this for the heck of it. This is for you; remember that.

"Eyes like stones lit up the night, silent wings flapped on the wind, buffeting air down beneath them. Yellow glares fixed on a small movement in the mess of leaves and acorns, and a twitching black nose poked out of a hole in the soil. A flash of glinting talons, their sharp edges briefly reflecting the moonlight that dappled the forest floor, and a shriek of surprise, cut off abruptly as its neck snapped clean in half. A flash of pain, no more, then the world went dark for the poor woodland shrew.

Its beak buried deep into the creature's fur and flesh, scraping the bone beneath, and crushing its fragile ribs, piercing the heart and lungs of its prey. It lifted off into the night, the dark shrouding it in an almost unbreakable cloak of invisibility. The soft sound of twigs snapping signaled one had already caught its meal for the night, and settled in its nest. The owl tilted its head, listening for any other signs of a possible threat, and relaxed again as it heard nothing, save for a few little sounds of land mammals on the earth beneath.

It blinked once, clearing its keen eyes of debris it had picked up in its flight, and landed softly on its own nest, dropping the lifeless shrew on a platform of woven twigs and leaves. Its body twitched once, then regained its state of pure stillness. A final sigh escaped its tiny mouth as the air it had held in when the agile bird of prey had gripped it in its razor-sharp beak was let loose. A pitiful little squeak, then all was silent as the Great Gray owl tucked its large head under its wings to preen."

There. Go paint a picture of that, like you said you wanted to. I doubt you'll get anything from it, though. It's barely descriptive enough to even imagine the owl. And that's more like a huge failing mess than a masterpiece of writing.

You try it, luv. It's a lot harder than they say it is. Go ahead, see if you can make mine look like garbage, like you usually can.

I'll be up in my room. New book, can't wait to read it. Good luck, luv! You'll need it for actually attempting to do any type of writing. It's like trying to move the fridge and put it inside the pantry, impossible. Well, unless you have a really tiny fridge, but I mean the type in the kitchen. Enormous. Won't get that inside the pantry as long as the laws of physics remain the way they are, thank you very much- but that's not my point! My point is that it's hard. Really, really hard. And I don't even get it right, so it's not even worth my time trying. But it might be worth yours, like it usually is. Just- AGH!

I'm going up in my room. Not another word, Wheatley, not another word, just shut up, you'll go on for days, you will. Just shut up...

* * *

**I disagree, Wheatley. Writing is VERY fun, if you ask me. But if he's good at it or not... Well, I don't like it very much, considering I'm the one who wrote it, and I hate my writing.  
**

**First fanfic I've written while not actually half-awake. And it's just Wheatley talking, but I can still see Chell looking at him with an "I'm really tired of your complaining," expression. Anyway, this was technically me when I first tried writing, except I was worse than him. And that's saying something, if you ask me.  
**


End file.
